


Three Witnesses

by LyraNgalia



Series: The Montenegrin Affair [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:06:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Christmas in Manhattan, Irene Adler and the boy who would grow up to become Nero Wolfe receive an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Witnesses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [kilimiria](http://kilimiria.tumblr.com/) over at Tumblr, who wanted a fic where Sherlock overhears Irene singing.

Christmas in Manhattan was an elaborate and infectious affair, and a six year old boy, no matter how gifted and developmentally advanced, was still easily swept up into the glitter and peppermint scented whirlwind. Which was the only reason the late Irene Adler found herself standing with an overexcited, if still mildly dismissive, Nero at her side. The boy had his nose pressed against the glass of the Macy's display, his eyes followed the model train as it wove its way through the diorama of the Christmas village.

“Mom, I'm gonna tell Santa I want a Barbie dream house!” a girl behind them babbled happily.

Nero turned away from his intent examination of the display and gave the girl a look of intense disdain. “Santa's not real,” he told the girl solemnly. “Your mom is the one who buys you presents. And you're not getting a dollhouse. You're getting a baby brother.”

Irene swallowed back a laugh as the girl's eyes grew wide as saucers, and her mother turned several shades of angry red. “Why I never--!” she began, rounding on Irene with righteous fury. “How dare your son--”

“Be grateful he doesn't realize your daughter is gaining a _half_ brother,” Irene murmured to the irate woman, a smirk on her lips.

The woman's righteous anger turned to pale fear as Irene bent down and gestured to Nero, who dutifully reached for her and held on as she lifted him to her hip. Irene took advantage of the woman's momentary sputtering silence to walk away, her son in her arms. “What did I tell you about that game?” she asked the boy sternly as they crossed the street.

“I only play with you, not with stupid people,” came the sulkily obedient answer. “Mama, sing for me.”

Another stern look, and an arched eyebrow. “Interesting time to be asking for a favour, isn't it, Nero?”

The young boy did not look the least bit abashed, instead blinking wide pale eyes and giving her a look of pure innocence. “I could tell you when Uncle Mycroft is coming to visit,” he offered.

That made Irene laugh, and she pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead. Moments like this she looked... softer, warmer somehow, less like the long-dead dominatrix who brought England to its knees. “That may be worth a carol, at least,” she agreed. The agreement seemed to settle Nero completely and he listened with rapt attention as she began humming. 

“... _The playing of the merry organ sweet singing of the choir_.”

She was used to singing lulling the boy to sleep, so when Nero remained rapt, his attention alternating between Irene and the street around them as they walked, Irene trailed off, her grip tightening on her son as she walked. When his mother stopped, Nero blinked at her, and raised a hand to point to a figure approaching. “Hello, Papa,” he said solemnly.

Irene turned then, a look of genuine surprise in her eyes, as she caught sight of what her son had seen already, the tall, familiar figure heading for them, his greatcoat pulled up against Manhattan's chill. She kept walking until his longer strides caught up naturally. “You sing,” was all he offered as means of greeting. But then even that was more than they needed.

She smiled at that as he fell into step beside her. The boy remained wisely silent, staring without blinking at his father. “Of course. I would never have tried to disguise myself as a diva past her prime in Montenegro if I couldn't deliver.”


End file.
